


take me back to the start

by winterveined



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterveined/pseuds/winterveined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, it’s not the seven goals that hurt the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me back to the start

In the end, it’s not the seven goals that hurt the most.

It’s not the dream being shattered to the ground, the faint light of hope being turned off, the indistinguishable and undeniable humiliation that they have gone through, that they have put their people through.

In the end, what hurts the most isn’t the whistles or the curses, or the cheers of the german. In the end, what hurts the most is the silence.

It’s the silent tears that stream down brazilian faces, the air that gets stuck in their throat, the disappointment. In the end, what hurts the most is the crushing feeling of failure. It’s the unspoken words, the unspoken pain, the unspoken destruction of an ideal, of the Country of Football, of the _hexa_.

In the end, is seeing the choked humiliation that cuts deeper than any knife, any dagger, any glass.

David Luiz had many expectations. He expected to win, to see Thiago lift the World Cup trophy, to be the first country to ever win both the Confederations Cup and the World Cup. He expected to have the weight of a golden medal around his neck, and the weightless sensation of making his country proud.

He never expected—no, he never wanted to feel the weight of the captain band on his arm. It is a common dream, he realizes, to want to be captain someday. It is the biggest recognition anyone can have, the biggest honor one can experience. He never wanted it, though.

Not because he feared responsibility. That was never an issue, even with his seemingly reckless and carefree personality. It wasn’t because he didn’t like being in charge, or in power. He liked it as much as the next person, finding it exciting, interesting.

The truth was, and this is one that he never felt the need to keep to himself, that he had always been and would always be open about, that he never felt like there was right. Or, to put it in simpler terms, he wasn’t Thiago. And if there was someone who was worthy enough to be the captain of the Seleção, that someone was Thiago fucking Silva. And there is not one person in the whole wide world that will ever be able to disagree on such matter.

Thiago Silva bleeds and breathes and feels and lives for the Canarinho. Thiago Silva is a true, a natural, a born leader. Thiago Silva is the best defender in the world, and he is the Captain of the Brazil National Team. Only him, and no one else.

David Luiz never wanted to be captain, and he was it either way. He never wanted to be the one leading the team, leading it without their true captain, without their fucking star. He never wanted to lead Brazil into the semifinals, but he did so anyway, he committed, and the failed.

He let them take seven goals, let them lose all stability, all trust, all desire. Let them disappoint their people, together, united. Let them be the reason for more, more and more tears, more and more suffering, more and more despair. He was the one to strip Brazil from the title of _Pais do Futebol_ , and to rip the hexa dream from their fragile hands.

It was all his fault, every single minute of it, every single goal, every single wrong pass, wrong interception. Every single whistle and criticism, every single tear, every single undeniable frustrated curse, it is all his fault.

In the end, is the utmost silence that makes the air tight packed, that makes him unable to breath, that makes the tears fall freely from his face, that makes him lower his head in shame. It’s the silence that makes him hear but not listen to Schweinsteiger’s words. It’s the silence that make the tears fall shamefully down his face.

He knows that there are people talking to him but he doesn’t catch them. He doesn’t feel the grip of his teammates on his arm, or even the Scolari’s embrace. Here’s what he does feel: he feels Thiago’s hand on the back of his neck, he feels the arm of his Captain around his waist. He hears the words that come out of his lips (‘This is not your fault. Don’t do this to yourself. This is not your fault.’), he clings onto that moment for as long as he can, until Thiago is gone, and he’s standing in front of thousands of cameras, apologizing over and over and over again.

_Eu só queria poder dar alegria para o povo._

-

The ride back home is painfully silent.

No one dares to say a word, no one dares to let the pain that they feel be verbalized. There’s no need. Each and every one in that bus knows how it feels, even those who were not on field, even those who were on the bench.

The only thing he can hear is Thiago’s low voice, whispering comforting words to Oscar. It brings a bitter taste to David’s mouth, to see such a young player in such a wreck of a state. It’s not fair. None of it is fair.

It hurts too fucking much it’s not fucking fair.

-

David is folding his clothes when he hears a knock on the door, and he can’t help but to curse under his breath.

He doesn’t want to see anyone. He doesn’t want to face anyone right now, doesn’t want anyone to acknowledge how red and swallowed his eyes are, how his hands are shaking and how he is finding any possible excuse to not think about the fucking game. He doesn’t want anyone to discover that he is not okay as he claimed to be, that his cellphone had been turned off and thrown somewhere in the room, because he doesn’t want anyone’s pity, anyone’s anger, anyone’s anything.

All that David Luiz wants, surprisingly, is to be complete and utterly alone. To dwell on his regrets and his shame and his guilt alone, without interruption, without unwanted opinions.

He closes his eyes, pressing the tee shirt to his forehead before taking a deep breath. Maybe if he stays silent enough whoever is on the other side of the door will go away. Maybe they will give up.

They don’t.

David puts the shirt on the suitcase, walking in short steps towards the door, plastering forcibly a smile on his lips, ignoring how red his eyes and nose look, pretending that whoever is out there won’t notice, won’t ask questions, won’t invite him to go to their room to play videogames and watch as the others get drunk.

He is unlucky enough to face Thiago of all people on the other side of the door.

Which, to be fair, shouldn’t be surprising at all. He is probably checking on every single player, making sure that they are all okay, that they know that is not their fault, saying whatever lie that he has to to make them feel better, to make the pain ease, because it is his duty as captain.

David has seen him do that before—eat all of the pain away, pretend that it does not hurt, ignore the way that his stomach churns and how he wants to do nothing more than to sit alone and break down (and even then, even then he would not allow himself to cry, to let the stress go, to feel more than he deems appropriate).

“I’m fine, before you ask. I’m great. You can go to Marcelo’s room now, is right there, two doors down. I’m great. Not needing any inspiring words.” He’s about to add ‘thank you for your consideration’ and shut the door when Thiago raises his brow and pushing David away from the door to get inside. “That is incredibly rude.”

“Yeah? My parents didn’t raise me very well then.” Thiago deadpans, pressing his lips together before looking at David. He tilts his head ever so slightly, fidgeting his fingers before finally looking saying “How are you?”

“I thought I had made that clear already. I’m fine.” David says, and his tone comes out too bitter for his liking. He swallows past a lump in his throat, praying that Thiago won’t notice. (He will, though. He always does).

“I’m not stupid, David. You were a wreck in the pitch, your eyes are as red and swollen as it gets and you look like shit. And I highly doubt that you’ve been smoking weed.” Thiago considers, for a moment, cracking up a smile, but it doesn’t feel appropriate. Nothing feels appropriate. Every movement is calculated, like stepping in eggshells.

David looks at him, presses his lips together and ignores the way that his eyes burn. He looks at him and forces himself to stand tall, to not let his knees give up, to not lie down on the floor and pretend that the world does not exist, that such a match was no more than a terrible, terrible nightmare. That all he wants to do is sleep, sleep until he loses consciousness, until he doesn’t know his name.

He fears that if he sleeps, he’ll dream of one, two, three, seven goals and utter and complete silence.

It’s the way that Thiago looks at him that makes him lean against the wall, pressing his head against it and closing his eyes. It’s the intense way in which Thiago stares, expecting or even demanding an answer that makes him play with the band of his shirt, searching for words to describe the indescribable, to soothe the unsoothable. It’s the way that Thiago looks at him, like nothing else matters in that moment, like he is the only thing in the world, that makes him open his mouth.

“They never tell us,” he starts, looking back at Thiago and swallowing hard. “They never tell us the bad things. When you ask what it is like to be a footballer, they only ever talk about the victories. How good it feels to lift trophies, to be considered a hero, to be worshipped. How good it feels to win, to be cheered on by an eighty thousand spectators crowd. They never tell us, not once, how it feels to lose. To disappoint. To take 7 goals at home, to—”.

He tries to speak but the words get stuck in his throat. He tries to speak but he opens and closes his mouth and yet is greeted with nothing but silence. He opens and closes his mouth but there are no words to match the tears that form once again on his eyes, the speed in which his heart beats, the air that gets trapped inside of his lungs.

David looks down, taking a deep breath before continuing. “They never once tell you what is like to know that you are to blame for the humiliation of a nation.”

As soon as the words leave David’s lips, Thiago is standing in front of him, hands pinning him against the wall as he shakes his head from one side to the other. “I’ve heard you say some pretty stupid things in the years that we’ve known each other, but this one takes the prize. This isn’t—” he licks his lower lip, searching for the right words to say, for the right way to put his thoughts. “This isn’t a one man blame situation. No game is. It’s too easy and too simple and football isn’t at all. Football is complex. There’s too much involved. This isn’t your fault. This isn’t my fault, this isn’t Felipão’s fault, or Marcelo’s or Julio’s. This is no one’s fault. It happened. It sucks and it hurts like hell and it—”  

“It was my fault though. I should have been taking care of Müller, I should have—I should have taken care of it and I didn’t and it’s my fault. You’ve heard them. It’s my fault.” David hates how he sounds. Hates the way that the words come out of his lips, hates the amount of self pity that inflicts from every single sentence. He hates it all, and he hates himself.

“Journalists don’t understand shit. Supporters will find a scapegoat. This wasn’t your fault. There was nothing that you could have done. That any of us could have done, this wasn’t—It wasn’t meant to be. And that doesn’t mean that it was your fault. It just means that it wasn’t meant to be.” Thiago looks up at David, pressing his lips together and swallowing hard. There’s a spark on his eyes, a sad shine to it that feels utterly wrong, and just fucking depressing.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m so—”

They’re not entirely sure of what it happens. They’re not entirely sure at what point Thiago pulled David by the neck, crashing their lips together in an attempt to shut him up. They’re not sure at what point they look at each other, blinking softly before pressing their lips together again and again, but they do.

They’re not sure of when they lose their clothes, or why it didn’t feel anything but right to be together like that. Why it felt so natural, why it felt so fucking right. Why it felt like there was nothing else in the world, like the game was in the past, like it didn’t happen less than 10 hours before. They lean into one another, kissing their wounds away, sharing their pain like never before, like never considered. They hold each other close, and closer, and closer, until their distance is minimal, until they are breathing the same air, until it’s them, and only them.

Thiago presses a kiss to the nape of David’s neck before whispering “We go forward. Always.”

_This too shall pass._

  


**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written shit in the longest time but this was something i felt like writing since the beginning of times and it just kind of happened. it's very eh but it's sOMETHIGN so YEAH  
> comments & critiques are always appreciated <3


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